


A Brief Lesson in Drowning

by A_Vexing_Hex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Vexing_Hex/pseuds/A_Vexing_Hex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was sudden. The spider had snuck in through one of the windows. The consulting detective was completely certain of that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief Lesson in Drowning

It was sudden. The spider had snuck in through one of the windows. The consulting detective was completely certain of that.

Sherlock was choking. He struggled for air, bucking back against the firm, smooth grasp of a hand that held him down, that kept him under the water, one of his own hands reaching behind him to try and swat at whatever assailant was trying to drown him in the sink. The other palm gripped tight at the porcelain, trying to gain leverage and shove back.

                _Whatever assailant_. The consulting detective knew that he mustn’t kid himself. He was fully aware of who was behind him, whose fingers had closed about the nape of his neck. There was no _not_ knowing the presence of James Moriarty in a room, not any more. Not after they had started these diversions.

                The tension in the air was thick and heady. It could smother almost as readily as the water that threatened to seep into the detective’s lungs. Jim was drunk on it, and he knew Sherlock’s pulse was rushing faster than Holmes would ever care to admit. The danger in it, this little game of theirs, the danger had just escalated to a new point.

They were playing drowning games now.

                “I really wish that you’d just fall apart, Sherly, you know that? Make things so much easier on you.” Moriarty suddenly dragged the man from the water, letting him gulp in a few precious gasps of air. Sherlock both appreciated this and shuddered at the sudden shock of oxygen, which stung a tiny bit. “Of course, not all at once. Just a little. Just a little teencey bit at a time. I’ve missed you **_so very much, you know_**.” Those last words picked up in volume, his nails tensing and drawing over the side of Sherlock’s throat, drawing an unwelcome wince.

                He wasn’t wearing gloves.

Moriarty was assaulting him, but he wasn’t wearing gloves. This was an open, physical attack on Holmes’s person without any discretion or attempt to disguise his identity from others, to keep evidence minimal, and the detective was quickly trying to deduce why that was, his head twisting slightly on his neck to look over his shoulder. The glance was never given to him, though, as his face met the water once again. It sloshed over the edge of the sink and wet his dress shirt, which was only half-on to begin with. This was quite a morning shower, cold and unpleasant, and strangely invigora—

No, that was no way to be thinking.

Jim sneered his pleasure as he pulled the other man back out again,tugging that long, lithe body close against his own, nearly pulling the other man’s head down to rest on his shoulder. The consulting criminal could appreciate a contortionist when he saw one. “There we are. All washed up. Wishy Washy Sherlock, and far too clean.”

Sherlock’s next exhale spluttered out of his throat. He rasped at the other man, his head hung, grimacing still, “Perfectly sanitary now, thank you. A release is in order.”

“Oh, contrary to what I’m sure you believe, you’ve never been more right.” Alright, so he had walked straight into that one. Damn and damn. There was a thick swallow in his throat, but he held it back.

This wasn’t the first time they had played these games. No, the first time had been in an alleyway just outside of the National Maritime Museum after the mysterious murder of seven security guards there had been solved, tidily. The bulls had butted heads when Jim had stepped out from behind the smoke and mirrors that had funded the “operation,” and the scuff had ended in a pat on the cheek that escalated into a surprising kiss. A kiss of ownership, a demanding smashing of lips that had left Sherlock blinking against a brick wall as Moriarty practically skipped away. There were always flirtations (text messages at three thirty three in the morning), and little unexpected visits while John was out of the flat.

Those unspoken “appointments” grew stranger each time. Casual touches at his arm, fingers against his lips, all usually smacked away with a look of disdain, but never truly fought off.

It was during one of these visits that Moriarty decided to attempt and drown Sherlock Holmes in the sink of his own loo. Not with intention to murder, but rather to enslave. The consulting detective was aware of the ploy, and sickened by it. Sickened moreso by how far the fixation carried Moriarty, how deep it ran…and how far into it the two of them sank, together. Yes, together. Jimmy was obsessed with controlling and deforming the detective’s life, and intimacy was just yet another weapon in his arsenal against the Virgin.

Sherlock gave a disgruntled grunt as he was pushed down to his knees, Jim’s hand idly tugging his hair back and forth, side to side as he thought, the serpent’s own head mirroring the motion. Moriarty was fixed right now, he was thoughtful. He calculated integers and outcomes floating through his brain, and Holmes could see their reflections in his eyes. How far, how far could he shove the shining white knight of Scotland Yard into the depths of depravity…

Jim had a barometer test in mind for that exact purpose. He intended to find out. The detective just didn’t know _how_ quite yet.

“Open your mouth and say ‘ah!’”

Sherlock’s brow quirked quixotically at that, eyes that were silvery and blue all at once turning up to meet Jim’s gaze as he cleared his throat once more. He still felt rather hoarse from his previous underwater adventure. “…No.”

“ _Sherly_!” Moriarty’s whine lilted, high-pitched and filled with childish agony. “If you don’t do what Daddy says, then he won’t give you a treat from the market!”

“I don’t want to eat anything that’s touched your hands. And I’m not particularly thirsty.”

“Shame, that.” The snorting giggle here was positively insane.

What was Holmes getting himself into…

He could scream for help. That would be awfully undignified. He certainly could be putting up more of a fight than just denying whatever idea Jim had to toss in his direction. He was caught in a wave right now, rolling in it, and no direction was up or down. Sherlock was floating, unanchored, in the churning sea that was the psyche of James Moriarty, and he knew that there was no chance of the coastguard finding him here. And deep in the core of him, somewhere beneath all of the animosity between their minds, there was something deeply appealing about the criminal. Perhaps it was a sense of relation to the other man. Perhaps it was how utterly faceted and…interesting he was. Not dull, not boring, but actually quite fascinating, in the sickest of senses.

Sherlock would have had more time to ponder on this particular conundrum if, following it, he hadn’t taken a harsh slap to the face. There wasn’t a pause to gather after that, either, as Moriarty dragged him back into a straighter posture and gave the command again. “Open your mouth, darling. Or I’ll pry it open with a crowbar. I know John keeps one in the closet.”

It was Holmes’s turn to be childish now. Ire filled his eyes as he firmly pursed his lips shut, a boy refusing to take his medicine. And the consulting criminal knew that just wouldn’t do. Fingers slipped down and unfastened Moriarty’s belt, as well as unfastening the button and zipper that held his finely-tailored slacks shut. For how well they were cut, they had done a fairly impressive job of disguising what was a quickly growing erection. A fair-sized one at that.

That was different, and the change caused the detective to jerk his head back, finally fighting the fingers in his hair. Not a game he wanted to play, no, not good. His head thumped firmly back against the wall next to the sink, hands flying up to shove against Jim’s thighs, an attempt to drive him away.

Moriarty’s free hand managed to slide his belt free of his trousers. It was looped through its own buckle and cinched tight around Sherlock’s neck.

Drowning games.

The hand that had previously been clenching the detective’s waved locks tightly now closed over Holmes’s nose, pinching it shut. He had to surface eventually. The other hand tugged on the belt around his neck, a handy little leash, forcing him to stay close.

 The consulting detective’s hands clawed at Jim’s legs, pushing, shoving, thrashing about, but not enough to set himself free. His eyes were wide and staring, eyes that clashed so brilliantly with the other man’s, pure light versus deepest black. Something about the abyss in those eyes held him beyond all sense or semblance of logic. Hypnotizing, mesmerizing.

The leather noose snicked tighter around his throat. Sherlock knew his body well, knew the human body well, and he was perfectly aware that he was about to start panicking from lack of oxygen. His vision was blurring from the constriction of the veins in his neck.  At long last, he had to give in out of sheer instinct.

His mouth was full, and he tried to tug back again, tried, but couldn’t, the grip on his leash too tight, too insistent.  A gag reflex made his neck tense further. The detective’s eyes turned upward and met Moriarty’s laughing face. That cacophony echoed off the walls and made him shudder, fingertips twitching against finely-dressed thighs.

“You’re not fighting much. You’re not biting, isn’t that odd?” Jim’s hips withdrew slightly. Air.

“But then again, you didn’t fight much when I had my fingers in this mouth either, under that rusty old bridge.” They pressed in again. Breath held, blood rushing.

He began a slow rhythm, rolling his hips, smirking as he fucked Sherlock’s mouth. “Then again, I know you, Sherly. I _knooow_ the unknown intrigues you more a little—“ His breathing hitched slightly as the detective’s lips pursed slightly around his fully-engorged cock, making him harder still. “…A little more than you want to let on. And I know you haven’t done this before. Poor little boy.

“It’s my pleasure to educate you.”

Was that something he wanted? The jury was out. Sherlock’s fingers twitched, and he glanced away, disinterest plain on his features, though he knew that Jim could read otherwise.

The belt tightened again, and Holmes began to realize…he was being guided. He was being taught, being moved back and forth, swaying to the rhythm the psychopath dictated. He hated it, how easy it was, how easy he was making things for him.

“Lick it.” Jim withdrew nearly the whole way, leaving the swollen, blunt tip of his cock resting within the detective’s lips. “Like _candy_ , Sherly dearest.” He drew the belt tighter and tighter until he was obliged, begrudgingly. A hiss of bliss, of pleasure and control left the criminal’s clenched teeth, disheartening Holmes greatly.

Snide words left Moriarty’s lips, constantly. Clever little jabs, sneering insults, all the while using the tightness of the belt to direct the other man over his erection. Sherlock was able to tune most of them out, as it was more of the same, Jim’s mighty manifesto, claims of how they were the same, of how they were meant to collide in this most disturbing of fashions…He ignored all of them, until one.

“I’m sure your precious Doc John would appreciate this lesson, don’t you? Perhaps I should teach him as well. I think I should.”

Sherlock froze.  His eyes narrowed. Mouth tightened.

“Ooh, that’s good. Keep going. Twist your head a bit.”

But his willingness, for the moment, was gone, and he simply stared at the other man. No. No, he hadn’t gone there, hadn’t meant that. Dear God, he hadn’t meant that!

Jim gave an exasperated sigh. “Oopsy poopsy. Pressed the wrong button, did I? Oh well.”

And matters were taken into the criminal’s own hands. He was pulling up on the belt now, pulling up on the belt to plunge and soak Sherlock in the deep again, to shove him back where he wanted him, against the wall, choking on cock.

Holmes could imagine how he looked. He could imagine how red in the face he was. He knew how that affected Moriarty, from the slightly bitter taste of pre-come on his tongue. And despite himself, despite his hate and his frustration and his confusion, his tongue flicked upward to sample more of that.

The maniac before him allowed that, and Sherlock allowed himself this one moment of satisfaction, this one moment to smirk and goad up at the other man. He was the source of Jim’s obsessions, after all. And then everything _clicked_. He was the source of Jim’s obsessions. Jim wanted control over him. But Holmes had some amount of that same control, however miniscule it may be, over Moriarty himself.

It was with that conviction that he sucked. He sucked hard at the length in his mouth, and soon enough, his throat. He gagged and choked and suckled and swallowed until the criminal mastermind was coming, hard, within his mouth.

At that moment, Sherlock could see. They were in synchrony, two beings that understood their powers struggle. Their eternal stalemate would never see a victor, but at least they had their sick little games to fill the time between beginning and end. They had this constant struggle between them, and these collisions…these little séances of the energy between them were positively inevitable. It was an epiphany.

His head thumped against the wall once more as Moriarty withdrew. He hadn’t swallowed any of what he was given, but he toyed with it on his tongue as the other man made his exit, as bizarre and quickly as he had arrived. It slid from his mouth, dripping from his lips and dribbling from his chin, and eventually he spat it off to the side, eyeing the puddle of water in front of the sink. Bright eyes glanced down. Not aroused. Hm.

The epiphany’s gilted splendor was beginning to fade.

John would ask about the ligature marks around his neck.

Sherlock leaned over and retched, dry, into the toilet. There was nothing to give into it. He sat back and waited for the doctor to come back home.


End file.
